


Public Execution

by Knightess



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightess/pseuds/Knightess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although forgotten by history, Shay was at Connor's execution in 1776. The Templars were on the brink of seizing control of the revolution, the would-be Colonial Brotherhood destroyed -- again. But when things go awry, Shay sets out to find the one responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Public Execution

Shay pulled himself up onto the rooftop of New York’s City Hall. In the square, a crowd had gathered already, but he went entirely unnoticed, every last soul focused on the gallows on the other side of the square. They were audience to the grim theatre that was about to take place, a play they had no idea was entirely a fabrication. The players were ready: Charles Lee took up his place at the gallows, where a single noose hung waiting, Washington was watching with an armed guard from the shelter of City Hall. Any moment now, Hickey would be here from Bridewell with the prisoner.

Even though he was hardened to sights such as these, the hum of anticipation from the civilians still gave Shay a dull, sick feeling in his stomach. Would any of them be as eager to witness this death if they were the executioner? Watching a life end was so different from the eyes of the one taking it. Yet they were like beasts, converging on a kill and delighting in it. Haytham was right: when the new world came, these people would need a shepherd. Someone who would show them better.

He pulled his air rifle from his back, crouching low on the rooftop of City Hall. Shay had the perfect vantage point: the crowds would be watching in the opposite direction, and yet the building was too conspicuous, too heavily-guarded by Washington’s men, for any would-be rescuers to climb up and attack him. He was safe to carry out his watch here.

Soon the noise in the square intensified as a horse-drawn wagon entered. Hickey jumped down from the front of the wagon, the back doors opened, and the prisoner tossed out onto the ground. From where he lay, hands bound behind his back, he was hauled to his feet, exchanged a few words with Hickey, and then was shoved on into the crowd.

As he was marched through the hissing and shouting tides, Shay observed that the man who had been such an unexpected thorn in their sides looked nothing like an Assassin. He was bloody and battered, dressed in prison rags instead of Assassin robes. He kept his head bowed like a man resigned to his death. Still, Shay kept his rifle trained on him. Though the Brotherhood had been decimated years ago, this “Connor” had already killed Johnson and Pitcairn. A lone wolf could be dangerous even without a pack.

As the prisoner reached the gallows, a woman swung for him. Her fist connected with his jaw, and as he staggered and fell to his knees, she spat on him in disgust. The guards allowed it, indifferent to how their prisoner would be abused in his final moments – they seem to have delivered similar punishment ten times over, judging by the blood covering his rags. But then a man from the crowd intervened, a cripple, forcing the woman back with his cane, and helping the Assassin back up to his feet.

Shay’s grip on his rifle slackened, and he felt something cold and hard in him soften. _Achilles and Connor._ How didn’t he realise the connection between the two names sooner? Achilles must have known taking on a new apprentice would be a hopeless cause, and yet after all these years of bitter isolation in his crumbling homestead, with no Brotherhood and no future, he had tried anyway. Now, he was no doubt exchanging goodbyes to this second son, trying to give the Assassin some dignity in his final moments.

No such thoughts were on Lee’s mind. Connor was up on the gallows, now, and Lee played up to the crowds, giving the most theatrical of speeches about the traitor before them, charged with betraying the Patriot cause and conspiring to assassinate George Washington. The hypocrisy of it all was lost on the crowd, who by now were calling and shouting in a frenzy, hounds baying for blood.

A sack was pulled over the Assassin’s head, and the noose fitted around his neck. Back down in the crowds, Achilles turned his face away and vanished, as if unable to watch. Shay didn’t blame him.

Then the trapdoor opened under the Assassin’s feet.

In that split second before his neck snapped under his body’s weight two things happened: a knife was flung down from the direction of a rooftop, cutting the rope in half. Shay raised his rifle to shoot the would-be rescuer, but in the same split second, swerved to change aim when he noticed a caped man on horseback with a blade in hand. He threw a second knife, which severed the rope entirely.

There was a shocked silence, and then chaos erupted. The prisoner’s writhing body dropped through the trapdoor and disappeared. Hickey, seeing his chance, turned and made a beeline for Washington with a few of his mercenaries in tow. The man on horseback turned and fled, and it was him Shay took off after, leaping down from the building, stealing a nearby horse, and spurring it on in pursuit.

Shay didn’t know if the caped man noticed he was being followed, not once did he glance behind. Nonetheless the man rode straight south across the city, and through the onset of driving rain, straight south.

To Fort George.

Was the man a Loyalist who thought it in his genuine interests to let the man branded Washington’s would-be killer survive? Or was he an Assassin who had tried to blend into the crowd, and was now fool enough to try to hide away at a Templar stronghold? Shay urged his horse on as the fort came into sight.

The figure was already at the gates, and as the guards stopped to identify him, Shay slowed his horse, aiming and cocking his pistol with the cry, “Arrest that man!”

The figure calmly dismounted his horse, hands raised to show surrender. Although he had a pistol aimed at him, he was the picture of calm poise, reaching up to lower his hood.

“I think that’s quite enough, Shay,” said Haytham Kenway.

Shay lowered his pistol fast enough that he almost dropped it. “Sir—”

“Not here. Come, and we’ll speak inside.”

Shay was desperately confused, but he holstered his pistol and dismounted the horse, which he made a note to return to its owner later. He followed obediently past the guards, and into the fort compound.

Haytham took a detour up to the fort wall, where he shrugged off his cape, and threw it from the wall. Not a word was said as Haytham watched as it was swallowed up by the sea. Shay took that as an implicit suggestion that he was not to speak of this to a soul, and that the evidence was disposed of.

When they were inside, they took a seat each. Shay didn’t dare to break the silence first. By candlelight, Haytham looked ashen and distracted. Finally, he looked over, and his gaze was as piercing as ever when he asked, “Shay. What did you see at City Hall?”

“I…” Was this a question a test? He decided to choose his words carefully. “The execution was botched, sir. I apologise, I got distracted and didn’t see the Assassin on the roof until it was too—”

The Grand Master held up a hand to silence him. “I asked what you saw, not what you didn’t see.”

“I saw an Assassin cut the rope. When it didn’t break, I – I saw you finish the job, Master Haytham.”

Haytham’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “I’d expect nothing less of you. You are, after all, one of my best men.”

Haytham could be so restrained at times, it was hard to tell if he was furious or not, even when he was offering a compliment. Still, Shay took it as an opportunity to ask a question of his own. “With all due respect, Sir, you’ve sabotaged the very orders you gave us. Washington might even live now because of that. Is this what you planned all along?”

“No.”

“What, then, sir? It’s not like you to compromise a mission in the name of mercy.”

Haytham left his seat, arms folded behind his back, and moved to stare out the window. He stared at the bay beyond, still with that distracted, far-off look. “What kind of world would we be building if we cannot show mercy? Both you, and a man I once deeply admired, taught me that it is sometimes wiser to offer clemency to those who wrong us.”

Shay almost wondered if he was speaking to a different man entirely. “Why the change of heart overnight? Why _now_?”

There was a pause, and finally, Haytham turned to lock eyes with the younger Templar.

“Because that boy is my son.”

Shay was stunned into silence. A son. Haytham had a bastard son he’d kept quiet – and an Assassin at that. The irony of it all was cruel indeed. And yet…

“Master Haytham,” Shay began slowly, wondering how he could best word this. “The lad is _Achilles_ ’ son. Connor. His heir, through and through.”

“Assassins can be taught the error of their ways,” Haytham said, expression darkening. “You know that better than anyone.”

What Shay had intended to explain was the significance of the boy’s name on the Grand Master, but he knew it was a wasted effort. That answer meant that Haytham’s mind was already made up, and when Haytham made up his mind, few things changed it. “Yes, sir.”

“No one is to take the blame for the execution’s failure. I hope you will handle this with discretion.”

“I always do, sir.”

“Whether Thomas was successful is another matter. I want a report on Washington’s status immediately.” Taking that as a dismissal, Shay bowed, crossing the room quickly. No doubt Haytham wanted to be alone for a while; it was unsettling, to see him look so disturbed.

As Shay reached the door, Haytham spoke up again. “And Shay? Don’t go after Connor. Leave him to me.”

Shay bowed his head in understanding, and left.

As he emerged from the darkness of the fort’s war chamber, he felt a strange mixture of relief, and of trepidation, thinking back to the battered prisoner being helped to his feet by the old Mentor. By a strange twist of fate, Achilles had been spared once, and now his student bearing the name of his son was being spared, too.

Shay only hoped the Grand Master’s second act of mercy wouldn’t come back to haunt them later.


End file.
